Stick a Fork in Moi

I'm done.

So much so, my brain instantly shut down and I spent an hour watching Madonna catch flies while marveling at how the hummingbirds manage to stay completely out of the way of her web. Nature's so clev-ah.

This photo shows her stalking. (Clicky all photos for maximum effect. Come on, Wicked, you can do it.)



This one is her home in perspective. Can't see it too well, but there's a huge-ass web there in the corner. Actually, it's three webs, overlaying each other. She's obviously a Republitard spider because she can't remember how many homes she has.



These are the hummingbirds - black-chinned, Rufous, and broad-tailed. Each hates the other. Every day, hummingbird wars ensue. And I go broke filling the feeder.



At least the Rufous will be leaving for Oaxaca any day now and the broad-tailed and black-chinned will be left to duke it out amongst themselves for another 3-4 weeks. And I won't have to keep running to Sam's Club every 2.4 seconds for sugar.

Now, excuse ay Moi, I have to take a nap before the DNC tonight. Gubnor Bill Richardson speaks tonight and I want to see if Il Duce bothered to shave.

Bees Obscene and Not Heard

If there's anything I hate more than crap science, it's crap journalism. Gone are the days of Hunter S. Thompson, Joan Didion, and Tom Wolfe, savvy observers of the American political, social, and cultural scene who before ever putting pen to paper, first totally and fearlessly immersed themselves in the topics they were covering, whether those topics included California car culture, Russian revolutionaries, or the inner workings of the Hells Angels.
Today, we rely primarily on television "news" shows to bring us investigative stories and in depth profiles. And for ages it seems, 60 Minutes has been considered the cream of the crop. But over the past couple years, the show I've been watching has slowly devolved into something with all the journalistic integrity of The Tyra Banks Show.

Witness last night's coverage of the collapse of hundreds of bee colonies across the United States. Most of us know the gist of what's happening: over the past several years, millions of bees have simply up and left their colonies. Not died, but just, well, left.

While no one has as yet discovered the reason our bees are disappearing, no one is in dispute that they are. (I don't dispute it, either, although, oddly, my own garden has never been as lush, as healthy, and as overrun with bees as it has been these past 2-3 years. Hmmm . . . )

Like almost all of the newspaper, magazine, and online coverage of colony collapse, last night's show focused exclusively on the disappearance of honey bees from commercial colonies. That is, those colonies which are cultivated by professional beekeepers – like Dave Hackenberg, profiled in the show – to travel across the country to pollinate commercial farming operations. Like the bazillion acre pumpkin farm owned by Brian Campbell of Berwick, PA. When asked by reporter Steve Kroft what would happen to his operations if he didn't have tens of thousands of bees on the job, Campbell answered: "Well, my business wouldn't be as profitable." AS profitable, Party People. In other words, he wouldn't be able to grow mass quantities of pumpkins. Pumpkins headed not for our dinner tables, but for Wal-Marts throughout the eastern seaboard as eventual Jack-O-Lanterns for Halloween.

So.

After listening to about half the story, it occurred to Moi that maybe the bees are disappearing because they are continually being carted thousands of miles across the country on flat bed trucks, plunked down in the middle of hundreds – many times thousands – of acres of one single crop, and forced to spend the whole season pollinating not just said single crop but also one most likely treated with God only knows what kind of chemical(s).

In other words, the very industry that relies on bees for its profit may be stressing its main workforce right the hell out. And we all know what stress leads to. It leads to the fight or flight response. And the last time I checked, honey bees don't wear little honey bee boxing gloves.

Surely, if that theory occurred to lil' ol' Moi, it would occur to the Powers That Be at 60 Minutes. Right? Uh, that would be a big NOPE.

Never once in his report did Steve Kroft point out this irony. Never once did he wonder aloud at industry-wide reports suggesting that, unlike traditional industrial beekeeping operations like Hackenberg's, organic beekeepers, even those who operate at the same commercial level, are experiencing NO instances of colony collapse. Never once did he point out that this particular practice of beekeeping is still in its infancy, and we are only just now beginning to study it's implications for bee health and behavior. Finally, Kroft never once wondered if feral bee populations in non-agricultural areas (like the one that includes Moi's garden) were undergoing the same colony collapse (it seems they are not).

So, a story that should have been inspired and of-the-moment ended up just feeling kind of shabby and way too much like yesterday's news. Yes, we all know the bees are splitting for parts unknown. But tell us something new, why don't cha? I have a feeling that someday soon, you'll see 60 Minutes reporters undergoing their own kind of collapse: from boredom, disinterest, and lack of ideas.

Nature Loves Her Little Surprises

Yesterday afternoon, as I was shamelessly surfing the sofa post-La Luz, one eye on my eBay search, the other on Tiger Woods, S.B. pulled me from my perch to witness this:



The Nature Channel's version of Alien Vs. Predator, right there on my front porch. And Madonna lost. Do you know that little shit dragged her for about a yard and then flew away with her? Upsetting as it was, from an ethological standpoint, it's all good. I mean, that's some pretty single-minded determination right there. Not to mention muscles . . .

RIP, Madonna. Thank goodness there are two more of you left to pass along your DNA.

Fun With Spiders

Readers, meet Madonna, one of our resident orb-weaving garden spiders. She's very chic, no? I just love her gawgeous markings and her 'tude. Just the other day, I had the privilege of watching her catch a teensy little fly who had been unlucky enough to get caught in her lair. Whoomph! Madonna was on him like a debutante at a Dolce and Gabbana sample sale. Fascinating, if just a wee bit creepy.

Madonna's home:


Madonna's home, part deaux:


Madonna's not the only spider in the 'hood, either. There are three others just like her, weaving their orb-shaped spider condo webs up and down between the beams that make up our front porch, all of them quite complicated and multi-layered. All the better to catch spider snacks, I assume. Then again, if the average spider fare is so small, why the ginormous webs? Is this some kind of spider posturing, an arachnidian keeping up with the Joneses?

So I did a little experiment. Yesterday, I messed with the webs. I didn't destroy them, mind you, I simply de-attached the strings of silk that connected them from one beam to another (and in one case, one beam to the ground itself, so you couldn't walk under the porch in several places), letting the main orb section sort of sag and hang. No worries, though. This morning, I went back out there and all three ladies had built them right back up – even larger and more complicated than before.

And one of the Madonna's, she was right there in the middle of her web, glaring at me with those spider eyes of hers. If it weren't for the fact that I am a bazillion times larger than she and don't fly, I'd be lunch.

Vive la Difference

The first time I ever made S.B. relocate a rattlesnake, I feared he might divorce me. That's because S.B. is from south Louisiana. Over there, if something slithers along the ground or scurries up a tree, you shoot it. Sometimes, after you shoot it, you might do what one of our good buddies likes to do, and that is skin it, position it in an action pose in the freezer in order to scare the wife, and then cook it up for unsuspecting friends and family at the next barbecue. But never, under any circumstances, do you simply leave said wildlife in peace, much less relocate it.

But that's what I made S.B. do with the second rattlesnake that showed up at our old place. The first one, I let him shoot. In fact, I must admit, I asked him to. And then I was overcome with a guilt so powerful it banged away at my insides for days. I vowed never again to kill a snake (unless for some reason it was going to be dinner.) Otherwise, I was simply going to relocate all creatures no matter how creepy crawly off our property and back out into the wild. Hint: use a broom and a deep bucket . . . and try not to piss the snake off.

Today we take this relaxed approach with as much wildlife as we possibly can. For instance, the first year we moved in to this house, we discovered our happy home is host to a small nursing colony of pallid bats who every year from March to October, settle in under the eaves of our house.



Cute little critters, and they keep our insect population at bay. They are getting to make quite the mess on our stucco, though, so this year, S.B. built them a splendid bat box condo, which unfortunately, they have yet to grok to. We even sealed off the entire house (so we thought), yet somehow the bats are still here – only not in their condo. But what are we going to do? We want them here. And stucco can be washed and re-color coated. Perhaps next year they'll get the message.


And see this gal here?



This is our resident orb-weaving garden spider, a species which has built its webs somewhere along our patio overhang for the past several years now. Two years ago, a truly spectacular specimen showed up – twice the size of this one here, beautifully marked and vibrantly colored – and went about constructing a Web that could have won a design award it was so complexly woven.

Unfortunately this spider built her masterpiece right in the spot where me and S.B. were fixing to start working, sanding and staining our vigas and posts, which you have to do every couple years out here in the high desert, which tends to suck moisture out of everything like some gigantic sky-bound Hoover vacuum.

So I said to S.B., "What about the spider? Shouldn't we relocate her?"

S.B. let his head fall to his chest in that exaggerated gesture of annoyance which always means I'm just about to get on his every last nerve. "Sure. But YOU move it. And do it soon. I want to get started."

Using a long handled wooden spoon I gently nudged her into a deep Tupperware dish, then coaxed her back out onto the side of the house well away from our work. Of course, I fretted like a mother hen for days, checking her every couple hours to make sure she was still there. She was. And within about three days time had magically rebuilt her home. Not only was she beautiful, she was also adaptable.

Oh, and I learned something else, which I highly recommend you try at home: tap at the bottom of an orb spider web ever so lightly with your finger and watch in amazement as it springs instantly to life and rushes with terrifying predatory verve towards that very spot. Whoa. Just make sure you get your finger out of the way . . .